


A Veil of Snow

by Adadzio



Series: Canon Divergence/AU [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Book 6: The Winds of Winter, But Mel doesn't know that, F/M, Pink letter is false, Self-Sacrifice, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7056913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis is victorious at Winterfell, and Jon Snow lives, but all comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Veil of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** "Mel is murdered/dead  &&"  
>  _(how dare youuuuu)_

[ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/146822525149/rachmaninoffs-four-days-ago-one-of-the-kings)

* * *

He finds her north of the Wall. His lady is a stain of red amongst the duller weirwoods.

The king’s gaze is drawn below her scarlet eyes when they reunite, to the blue shadows and pale scars contrasting beautifully against her skin. Even the faded tattoo is visible against her cheekbone, the shame she always tries so hard to conceal.  _She is not wearing her ruby,_  he realises. Her lips have lost their rosy colour. He cannot look away as they part and tremble, and all at once he is that deadened lord of Dragonstone setting eyes upon her for the first time.

 _Deadened no more, for he is with his lady again._  It is then he realises she has spoken. “My lady?”

“I am cold,” Melisandre repeats with a small smile. 

For a long moment the idea does not add up in his mind.  _Cold_.  _How can she be cold? She is fire itself._  

The king lifts the back of his hand to her pale cheek. “We will remedy all things, my lady, in good time. First, tell me—is Lord Snow slain as they say?” 

“Stannis,” she sighs, tightness marring her lovely voice. “Stannis, I amso cold _."_ He is alarmed enough to forget Jon Snow’s fate. 

“Come,” he murmurs, tugging her from the ground firmly. Her hand feels so frozen in his, so weak. So unlike the slender hand that has danced like flame upon his flesh for years. He rips the gold cloak from his shoulders and drowns her in it. “We will build the fire very warm, the kind you pray your silly prayers for. And you will curl up in your chair and the chill will pass.”

"I prayed for you each night," she whispers. 

It is then he notices the way she winces and clutches at a blossoming stain over her bodice. “Your gown is redder than usual, my shadow. Mayhaps you will wear something new in spring, a fine silk gown of white or blue? It would be a sight.” He is rambling, but the dry words bring the smile back to her lips, so it does not matter. The only thing that matters is that he gets her to Castle Black, but she is unable to walk, so he must pick her up and carry her. No matter; it will suffice. He will remedy all things, in good time, but suddenly it seems he is running out of good time. 

A slender white finger tinted with blue runs across his jaw. “Fear not, my k-king. It s-shall all pass as the Lord wills it.” Her teeth are chattering. She does not speak again for a long moment. "I searched for you in the flames, I searched—I am s-sorry— "

“Don’t speak,” he says sharply, wrapping his cloak tighter about her form. She quiets and obeys. She always does. 

By the time he reaches the deserted courtyard her head is quite still against his shoulder. “We are nearly there,” he says, wondering why his voice sounds so quiet against her copper hair. She does not answer. “My lady.” Again he is met with silence, and again he lowers her to the slick ground below.

There are silhouettes behind him as he rips off a glove and grasps her jaw in inelegant fingers; the grey silhouettes of king’s men and queen’s men both, brothers of the Night’s Watch staring in horror as the red priestess spills herself upon the white snow. “Speak, my lady,” he commands, though it is the opposite of his last request. She does not obey this time, and the king is incensed. “ _Speak.”_

“Sire, she is— ” 

“I did not ask  _you_  to speak,” he hisses. “Only my lady, and yet she denies me. I did not take Winterfell in victory to have mine own lady defy me when I return.” He grips her jaw harder, further enraged to see her pale skin bruising blue and purple beneath rough fingers. How long had he wasted time mistrusting those delicate features, and why? Was it because she’d used them to hide her scars from him? _Her mortality?_

The same distant voice speaks up again, hesitant and catatonic. “’Twas Lightbringer, Sire…”

“ _What_  was Lightbringer?” 

“T-the wound, your Grace.”  _Wound?_ All he sees is the red, red dye of her silks and the way it bleeds across her breast. “The lady wielded it herself, by his side, speaking of Nissa Nissa in the ancient lore…” _No, it can't have been his Lightbringer._ His Lightbringer is strapped to his own hip.

_Then whose?_

The king grinds his teeth until his head is splitting. “Melisandre, you shall explain this.” But she does not explain it, no matter how he commands or pleads. “Explain it, my lady. Speak.” A voice echoes like one of Patchface's mad songs.  _Speak, speak._  The voice is broken and lost to the wind, and his own hands are stained red from her gown, his eyes blurred from the snowflakes. Soon his throat is burning. Hands grip his broad shoulders in restraint, and he is too weary to be furious. 

“We must begin the pyre,” someone says. 

“Lord Snow lives again,” cries another still. 

 _Snow lives again,_  the wind echoes.  _Lives again._

_Again?_

All at once Stannis is shaken from his delirium. He sees his priestess resting at peace in the crimson snow, her red body covered in a glimmering veil of snow, and he understands. Every eye is watching him, the skies silent and still.

After the longest moment he can ever recall, he rises numbly. “Bring Snow to me.” The men do not delay long, relieved to see their king recovered, though cold and truly dead of heart. “Clear the snow from her,” he says. Her skin is much too pale, almost pearly white as it blends into the snow. Stannis sighs. The winter air fills his lungs as he does so, piercing him with its sharp ice and settling deep in his bones. “And see she is wrapped in my cloak." He is relieved when his knights obey. He is relieved to see her covered when she's settled upon the wood.

Dead they both are, but his lady must never again be cold.


End file.
